the day I start talking about the stitching on my purse, or the wind on my brittle bones, or the way my grandchildren are so disrespectful toward god-given morals- place me in a padded room. Hand me a book or two and put me in front of a mountain view. Remind me that life is full of so many beautiful challenges and small talk is for those who are weak and whose mind is deflating. Read me a poem about the weight of the world or one of my own. Even when I am eighty years old, the world will have so much to teach me that I would regret talking about anything less than the beauty of emotion, waves crashing or laughter. Please, never allow material things and everyday happenings or small talk to become what I fill my voided days with. I do not deserve a deflated life nor do I deserve the last thing I talk about to be whether or not I had velcro on my satchel. Push me cognitively until my synapses are no longer connecting. An entire life experienced and yet the only thing to consider is nail polish color. No thank you. I want to be inspired till the day I die.